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Halo: Corporeal Delta
, Andra-D054 |antagonist= |author= |published=27 October 2017 |rating=16+ (Some harsh language and violence throughout) |previous= |next=Halo: Tempered Scalpel |series=Delta's Path |song= }} 'Story Tagline' The story of SPARTAN-III Delta Company is that of great hope, and subtle tragedy. Delta Company was never meant to be and yet a rogue ONI initiative went forward with it, and, at what cost? This is Merlin-D032 and Andra-D054's coming-of-age story, a story of sacrifice and adaptation. 'Story Summary' It's 2553, the is over. has survived. Now Humanity rebuilds. Most survivors want to forget the last War’s horrors and look ahead toward a brighter future. Others hold on to their desperation and paranoia – determined to remain relevant in a Galaxy where Humanity is not on the retreat, but on the advance. An internal coalition of agents and officers within the were ordered to dissolve the and to bury their distaste for Humanity’s . While some complied, a few defied the order and continued their work in secret; a group only is known to themselves as the “DELTA Initiative.” Awoken by the continued threats existing in Frontier space and new threats forming at home, the agents feel justified in continuing their Program in secret, even knowing the risks, including treason and fates worse than Death. With a new world and new assets, they push forward on borrowed time to develop a new batch of Spartan supersoldiers, SPARTAN-III Delta Company. Orphans who lost their parents to the Covenant onslaught converge and train on Argus V while told a lie that the War rages on. Recruits like Merlin-D032 and Andra-D054 must fight tooth and nail to succeed in this new, brutal environment. Every child joined Delta Company to become a Spartan, the real question remains, can they make the cut and at what cost? ''Story Patch Notes'' 'Dramatis Personae' Boson_(19).JPG|Merlin-D032 DT_Andra_Youth_Acquisition_Profile.JPG|Andra-D054 Team_Boson_logo.png|Spartan Team Boson Oracle_Snapshot.png|Delphi (DLI 8131-5) Jeffery_Korn_Snapshot.png|LCDR Jefferson Korn DT_Reyna_Romero_Snapshot.png|Dr. Reyna Zhou-Romero Jazmine_Utah_Snapshot.png|RADM Jazmine Utah Delta_Company_logo.png|SPARTAN-III Delta Company 'Chapter One: "''Graduation Night" }} Like a partially submerged alligator on the prowl, the crashed remains of a military starship jutted from the inky-black ocean water below a star-filled night sky. The final rays of illuminating sunlight passed hours ago over a mountainous horizon and left only the burning twinkles of tiki torches and floodlights to provide visibility around the grounded wreck and its surrounding cove. Above the lapping seawater crashing against the metal and earth of the rocky bluffs and the waterlogged ship, small clusters of chattering teenagers and a handful of adults socialized in their swimsuits or drenched workout clothes. The faded insignia of the United Nations Space Command, the outstretched eagle atop a globe, still stood proudly next to the emblazoned name of the former warship, now half-submerged at high tide and worn with time. Once known as the UNSC To Greener Pastures, this vessel now served merely as a swimming hole for adventurous youngsters that called the nearby military facility home. They were finally Spartans. After four years of transformative training, they proved their dedication and the youngsters would soon leave the wild world of Argus V behind. There was apprehension, and worry, but mostly excitement as exemplified by the positive mood that permeated through the small crowd atop the sunken spaceship. From the ash-laden beach across the water, one boy watched his friends and compatriots enjoy themselves aboard the wreckage. A pair of wrap-around sunglasses equipped with a darkness-illuminating VISR module covered his eyes. A burning tiki torch was his only company as he patiently waited for a close friend to make an appearance. He scanned the fallen warship and noted the two UNSC Pelican gunships parked haphazardly on its spine. The stationary aircraft were a means to move heavy gear and, in this case, party equipment and the entourage atop the spaceship when the celebration would reach its eventual end. The VISR module outlined the crowd in a holographic-green outline, identifying them as individuals friendly to the boy’s cause. Where some partied the night away and others did not make an appearance, the boy was content to stand guard in quiet. It was not a necessary action; there was no need for the precaution on this relatively peaceful and hidden planet among the stars. The population of Argus V was barely more than five hundred military personnel, including the teenage trainees. It was a means for the boy, Merlin-D032, to clear his head and get some peace before the world would predictably fall back into a state of warfare and training. At least, it was expected. He was to become a Spartan; no, that was not right. He was a Spartan now. He would have to go to war at some point; just tonight, he wanted to find some quiet for himself and the girl he considered his best friend. “Take those off. I brought dinner.” The commanding voice of one returning Andra-D054 brought her friend out of his thousand-yard stare and left a slight fluttering of excitement in his chest. Complying with her order, Merlin took the VISR glasses off his eyes and turned to face his best friend warped in the shadow of the nearby tiki torch. Andra was dressed in a drab-green military tee shirt that loosely hugged her shoulders and gray cargo shorts that reached just above her kneecaps. Merlin was dressed similarly as was the basic workout wear for SPARTAN-III Delta Company, their training unit. She was holding two Meals-Ready-to-Eat, MREs, sizzling in their discreet brown bags. In the torchlight, Andra’s blue eyes glowed like pale-purple orbs awash in obscurity. It was hard to read her emotional state from her pupils, however, an outstretched hand and a steaming dinner that smelled like beef spoke clearly her intentions. “Thanks,” Merlin replied softly and nodded his gratitude upon taking the bag from her. The sand shuffled below Andra’s bare feet before she took a seat on the black sand. He followed her lead and took a seat facing the ocean as well. The only reflections on the water were the lights placed by the party-goers even as the stars twinkled above; in a new moon phase, Argus V’s two moons were absent for the festivities. Merlin’s MRE snapped opened with a satisfying zip followed a second later by Andra’s own meal. For a full minute, only the sounds of quiet munching and echoes of distant partying hovered above the crashing waves. Inspecting the meal, Merlin caught the sight of a half-hearted meat stew with some unknown vegetables thrown into the mix. The meat probably came from an off-world, flash-cloned source; however, he paid it no mind. He spent the last four years eating MREs and cheap cafeteria food; to Merlin, it was just another meal. He had long moved past making fun of how bad the food tasted compared to his childhood. On the other hand, maybe, he just forgot. Andra broke the silence first, “I talked to Daniele in the mess hall before coming down here; he and Marcellus are leading another ten-kilo run through Devil’s Throat before morning. He asked if I wanted to join them and I said no, obviously.” Merlin twirled a plastic spoon through the air, gesturing for Andra to continue. She was getting somewhere but at the keyword mentions of Daniele-D003, Marcellus-D070, a ten-kilometer run, and the Devil’s Throat PT course, he shivered. Memories of that running course, especially when either of the mentioned Spartan graduates was in charge of tempo, still left him terrified. “I know, I think he’s crazy – ending Graduation with a PT run, even with our augmentations,” Andra responded at the sight of Merlin’s slight shiver; she lifted her wrist to the torchlight, displaying black puncture marks from a recent medical surgery. Even with skin grafts, the injection points – scars – were bone-deep. The healing scar tissue around the black dots was red and a little puffy, seemingly swollen even though it had been a few days since the medical operations; every Spartan from their company received these dermal surgery tokens. Taking a few moments to take in the scarring, Andra continued with her main point. “That said, I asked him where we would be deployed. Apparently, not even he knows.” Merlin swallowed a chunky piece of carrot with mild difficulty before responding, “Nothing at all? That seems unusual. You think they’re just going to drop us to our new deployments blind?” “I haven’t heard anything new that you haven’t. You still outrank me in our fireteam so you’re supposed to know more, or, have you forgotten?” Andra asked; the gravy patches collecting at the corners of her mouth ruined her toothy grin. “You got something on your face,” Merlin replied, dismissing Andra’s attempt at a joke. Andra’s face scrunched up at her friend’s diversion, “You’re kidding, right?” Merlin shook his head, insisting on his honesty. Narrowing her eyes further, Merlin could only describe her smudged-brown lips and her squinting eyes as something akin to a cartoon character. He may have found it endearing, but her expression was instead comical. He stifled a laugh as she bobbed her head closer to his, looking for signs of dishonesty. “Alright. Looks like you’re telling the truth.” Andra finally decided after getting a good look at Merlin’s face. Glancing at his shoulder, she took a moment to make some unspoken decision then smashed her lips into his shirtsleeve. She lifted an arm to grasp the shirt and rubbed the gravy into the cloth effectively. "What the hell?" Merlin exclaimed snapping his shirtsleeve from the girl's lips. “Victory.” Andra smiled, wiping the rest of the gravy on her wrist and spreading her index and middle finger in a V-symbol. "Andra...you know this doesn’t wash out easily, right?” Merlin groaned; he inspected the shirt and found that his drab-green tee shirt sleeve had a new smudge of mud-brown. Rubbing it out did nothing. “Oh come on, it’s Graduation Night. Live a little; no one’s going to give a shit if your shirt is a little soiled.” Andra reasoned before sliding back over toward Merlin so they were the same distance apart as before. Out on the water, some of the other Spartan graduates glanced back, looking to see what had caused the commotion. Spotting Merlin and Andra, they soon turned back to their own festivities. “Oh, that’s hilarious! That’s even ironic, coming from you. You’re more afraid of the instructors than I am!” Merlin exclaimed, thinking back to years of practicing his facial composure while facing down screaming drill sergeants. “I am not! You get flustered when they shout at you,” Andra pointed out. She looked out at the dark ocean, looking for something that was not there. “Sure, I used to shut down around them but that was a long time ago.” “You still freeze whenever someone tries to talk to you,” Merlin added. “And it's like all the air leaves your lungs when you try to say something.” “You're overreacting, I know I can be bad at times but it's not like there’s any new people to meet,” Andra replied with a slight smile and twirling a finger around to refer to their surroundings. "I'm getting better – baby steps." “Baby steps.” Merlin agreed with a whisper. He knew all too well about her speech inhibition, she seemed talkative now, however, in the company of others it was a completely different narrative. She was still carrying her baggage – four years since she came to Camp Ambrose. The only ones with an exception to her “others rule” were her friends, and recently, the drill instructors. “Well, at least all this is over now. We did graduate.” Andra explained. She looked at Merlin for a second then looked back at the sea. “…I hope so. I don’t want to go through that training ever again,” Merlin mumbled; he just wanted to be the Spartan he now was and leave this place behind. Argus V was a terrible place. He looked out to the sea and thought of his family. “Hey. Andra? Did I ever tell you my family name?” Andra remained silent as she stared out at the water. She answered after a few moments of quiet drifting; there was a degree of distance in her voice. “No. We didn’t exchange that information.” “Well, since we’re Spartans now. And you said to live a little,” Merlin said before jabbing Andra in the rib playfully. She jolted at the tap but quickly shoved him back in the same manner. Merlin grunted. “Ow. Uh, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to share them?” Andra glanced at Merlin with that same faraway look; however, her blue eyes were clear in the torchlight. There was a sudden drive that had not been there previously. “Andra Kearsarge Bradford. Nice to meet you.” Andra stated in a mock greeting but with a particularly serious tone. She brought up an outstretched hand for Merlin to shake. Grasping her hand, Merlin shook it softly. “Merlin Ljang Boyd. The pleasure is mine.” Andra lightly pulled her hand from Merlin’s grasp at the end of the pleasantries and tilted her head in an inquisitive manner. “So what percentage is Chinese?” “My dad was like a fourth or eighth, I think? Mom was Russian and from the United Republic of North America.” Merlin explained. “Ah, okay. I can barely see any Asian resemblance. You look like any pasty-colored Spartan in these parts.” Andra said, laughing about how pale all Spartans seemed to be, no matter their ethnicity. “What about your parents?” Merlin asked on impulse. He tripped over his own tongue to ask, realizing that was a bad question to ask in retrospect. Merlin glanced at Andra. Andra was staring at Merlin as if he grew a second pair of ears but the wide-eyed stare was only present for a moment or two. She quickly composed herself and looked back out to the ocean. “Umm. My dad was in Signals Intelligence. My mom served in the Army as a combat medic. I think our family went back several generations on ‘Octanus-Four’ but I don’t know much beyond that.” Merlin sighed in response; he knew Andra’s past was a touchy one, at least from what she had told him through the four years that they knew each other. The children did not typically talk about their pasts on Argus V – part of the traditions and rules of being a Spartan, however, sometimes it slipped out. In private. In some cases, the younger Spartans had no memory of their past to speak of. Andra’s short spout about her family was not new to Merlin but it gave him a little more of a clue to her undisclosed past. She was likely from a family that went back several more generations on that distant colony world. “Let’s just leave it at that,” Andra added as an afterthought, looking back at Merlin. There was a slight quiver coming from her body as if she was remembering something terrible. Merlin considered comforting her but quickly squashed the thought. He knew her well enough – when it came to discussing her past before becoming a Spartan, it was best to not say or do anything at all and leave it be. When Andra decided she would want to open up more, she’d let Merlin know. “Right…” was his only response before looking down at his cooling brown meal bag. The two went back to silently munching on their beef stew. Merlin chewed through the meat like he always did but he stopped when the taste of a sour-flavored vegetable hit his mouth. The bitter flavor came unappreciated but it also came with a hint of cardboard. Frowning deeply, he took two big chews and quickly swallowed the leafy plant part. Looking down into his bag, he noted that there was substantial stew residue lining the sides of the cardboard bag but Merlin definitely reached the bottom of the meal. He dropped his bio-plastic spoon into the bag and glanced around, expecting to spot a disposal bin somewhere in the wilderness. “You see a disposal around here?” A small burp erupted from Andra’s lips as she placed a hand over her mouth. Behind her half-obscured face, Merlin could make out a small grin. “No, I wouldn’t see why you would. I think I’m done too however...we can go back upstairs and throw it out or we could just do something down here.” Merlin gazed out at the dark water and the downed frigate that occupied the Cove. Looking back at Andra, he asked. “Do you want to go swim around the frigate?” Andra followed his gaze. “Sure. Why not? We can just leave the bags here by the torch till we get back.” Merlin rolled up his hard, cardboard bag into a tight little ball. Due to his augmented form, however, the cardboard folded like wet paper and quickly fit the intended size and shape. Merlin took aim with his off-hand like a baseball pitcher and tossed it at the base of the tiki torch with the precision he did not have days ago. It smacked against the wooden pole and caused the pole to vibrate inaudibly for a split second before going still once again. Andra tossed her bag, now rolled-up as well, to Merlin allowing him to throw the second cardboard ball at the pole and received the same result. Looking back to Andra for further instructions or some kind of indication that she was ready to swim, he met the sight of the girl yanking off her tee shirt and throwing it past Merlin’s head. It landed next to the torch and cardboard wads of paper. Without a second thought or a glance at Merlin, she marched off the black sand beach and into the surf. In the near-darkness, his augmented eyes could see that she was only dressed in a black sports bra and her short bottoms. Her shoulder-length hair waved in the sea breeze but what stood out to Merlin were the uncountable, polka dot scars all over her back and arms. Merlin pulled off his own shirt and threw it to where Andra had left hers. Looking down, he saw the same onyx-colored puncture points that displayed prominently on his abdomen, along with his blood vessels, and across his arms. Looking at Andra’s back, he could easily identify the same scars on her form; they were so similar to Merlin’s, all the way down to the exact injection points. It was clear a machine had performed the procedure – no human had that level of consistent precision. The thought of hundreds of needles stabbing into his body at fast intervals sent creepy-crawlies running up and down his spine. It terrified him and, in some way, it made Merlin feel more like the cloned meat in his MRE than a human being. He was still trying to put together what it meant to be a Spartan; maybe being a lab rat was part of the deal. “Hey! You coming in or what?” Andra yelled from the water, yanking the boy from his stupor. Merlin waved back to Andra and sprinted into the surf. In two bounds and a leap, he slipped through the rolling waters and bypassed the knee-high undercurrent. His augmented form moved through the water in a manner completely different from the last time he went for a swim, training or otherwise. Before his movements had been sluggish, pushing through the water like it was mud or pudding. Now, , with stronger muscles and tougher bones, the water resistance was far less noticeable. Following a few extra strides, he covered half the distance to Andra. He now stood waist-height in the surf. “So? Who’s the better swimmer?” Andra called to Merlin and pointed toward the crashed frigate in the cove. Its dual-pronged prow, a staple in UNSC frigate design, remained just above the waterline shredded in a crash long ago. The small crowd atop the wreck continued to mingle into the night – eating joyous party food and drinking carbonated soda pop. Older, “flip music” with heavy metal cords echoed into the night. “You want to race?” Merlin hollered back to his best friend. He performed a quick, rudimentary breaststroke and covered the last twenty meters between the two. “Yep,” she chirped when the two were once again together. Andra pointed her right finger toward a grotesque scene of twisted metal jutting out the side of the sunken spaceship. “We’re going to race to the stern of the Greener Pastures, next to the starboard-side thruster.” Merlin could feel his tippy-toes touching the surface of a sandbar below him. At his six-foot-three-inch height, he was taller than most people were but small for a Spartan; the water was relatively deep for him as the surf tickled his bare chin. Andra was bouncing slightly to keep her head above water. “How far is that? It’s a Paris-class heavy frigate, so, about 535 meters away. Half a kilometer.” Merlin stated, calling back to his naval science knowledge from academic training. “Sounds right to me. It should be nothing for us with our augmentations. We’ll race out there on my count.” Andra explained. “It’s going to be pretty deep. Not quite past the continental shelf but there won’t be anything to stand on.” Merlin responded, considering how long the warship actually was. Even if it was half-buried in the shallow cove, its stern side definitely sat at a deeper point in the ocean. “Afraid of drowning?” Andra asked teasingly. Her blue pupils twinkled in the natural and artificial lights atop the UNSC To Greener Pastures. “Not out here,” Merlin rebuked. He was not fazed by the deep ocean and he wasn’t aware of any nasty predators that frequented these waters. Delta Company became aware during their training what creatures came to call the planet home during terraforming. Giant sharks and sea monsters were not on the predatory short-list, at least in this area. “I’m just being careful.” “I know. I feel the same way but it should be fine. Worst we could run into is some stray shrapnel, right?” “I guess,” Merlin mumbled. He was not keen to try his luck but he never shied away from a friendly competition. “Are you ready?” Andra asked when the two of them were paused side by side in the open surf. “Yeah.” “On my count of three…” Andra said, beginning her countdown. Merlin tensed his thigh muscles and braced his shins for a kicking session. He was going to blast straight through the water and leave Andra in his whitewash if he got lucky. “One...two...three!” Merlin’s legs jetted out of the water, propelling him forward as he rotated his arms into a freestyle stroke. He felt his VISR glasses bouncing in the sealed shorts pocket on his right. He pedaled his arms and grasped at the surrounding salt water. Within Merlin’s ear, all he could discern was the sound of water splashing around and against his body. Without goggles, it was hard to see; both due to the darkness and his breathing pattern, snapping up for air every fifth stroke. For a moment every time he took a gasp of air, he could see a shadow cover up the night sky full of stars. Part of the unlit frigate super-structure; the overhang of titanium was a marker telling Merlin he was staying on course. Merlin was probably more than halfway from the starting line when the waves became violent and uneven, throwing off his momentum as he tried to pull water at a rate that balanced out the sudden assault. He took a breath and caught a silhouette speeding by, deeper into the darkness. The shadow called out in Andra’s breathless shout, “–better luck, Merl–!” She took another gasp, going under, her shadowy form raced forward and away. A sense of mild panic seized Merlin’s mind, screaming for him to swim faster. He was falling behind! His arms slapped against the water as he renewed his sprint forward. His surgery marks were burning with every exaggerated stroke he took, however, he ignored it as he attempted to regain his lead. Andra was exceedingly talented when it came to sports. She came to Argus V with knowledge for swimming and something called “cheerleading,” Merlin, in comparison, knew very little about sports. Like many Spartan recruits, he had to learn quickly and from scratch. It was a good thing he had an excellent athletic tutor or he might have stayed clueless and apprehensive toward deeper waters. Just as Merlin passed into the shadow of the Greener Pastures’ starboard thruster, he felt a firm hand clasp around his shoulder and pull him hard. Surfacing a little breathless, Merlin found himself staring into Andra’s dim lit eyes. In the pitch-black night, Merlin failed to see anything but the grimace shaped on her lips. “What is it? Did you win?” Merlin asked. He felt slippery strands gliding in the waters beneath his kicking feet but paid it no mind. Probably kelp or something. It took the girl a moment to respond; however, when she composed her thoughts, her response came out cynical and mildly pained. “Yeah...I won I guess. I stopped before we reached the finish...I think I got stung.” “What?” Merlin asked, now on edge. He looked at Andra but even with his augmented eyes, she just appeared like a submerged phantasm at sea. On closer inspection, Merlin could see her shadowy outline vibrating subtly as if she were shivering. “Look down…” Andra mumbled cryptically. She seemed in the mood for few words as she brought her arms up and tested her haphazard ability to swim back toward shore. For someone seemingly in distress, she was being unusually calm. Merlin glanced down and saw a wave of luminescent-blue, glowing like hot plasma discharge below him. It was not particularly visible but it was there. His eyes adjusted quickly and the detailed view nearly gave Merlin a heart attack, well, the sight might actually give him a heart attack if he was not careful. Transparent, glowing flesh-bags were lazily floating by and dancing in the dark. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of jellyfish packed into the same swimming hole. Each adult specimen seemed to be ten inches in width or bigger. Two jellyfish latched onto Merlin’s ankles and Merlin could see one still attached to Andra’s leg. “Giant Moon Jellies,” Andra stated pointedly, paddling away from Merlin. She seemed dreadfully calm about the situation; Merlin was already getting an incredible, eternal need to scratch at his knees. “You still got one–” Merlin started but Andra cut him off, gritting out her response as she swam away, not daring to look back. “I know!” Ignoring the jellyfish straddling his legs, Merlin kicked as hard as he could to escape the field of lunar-named jellies. One attached to his left leg went splat as it hit the surface of the water. Traveling at the speed Merlin was churning, the ocean’s surface might as well be concrete. The other jellyfish slipped off with another kick, gliding off in the presence of slick, white-water. The stinging sensation still refused to dim, however, Merlin’s augmentations were combat-oriented; a few jellyfish stings could be handled, especially with the numbing smacks of white-water and the adrenaline seeping into the Spartan’s bloodstream. Merlin could only assume that Andra was feeling the same sensations as she doggy-paddled ahead of Merlin back to the beach. Everything was burning but it could have been worse. He had been through much worse, like Spartan training. Merlin and Andra previously sprinted out to sea covering a half-kilometer distance in a few minutes at most; however, their slow paddle back took a good ten minutes or more. The stings seemed far from life-threatening for the young Spartans; however, it was clearly painful and concerning. They were far from invincible, this little incident certainly proved it. Alternatively, maybe they were. Maybe that sting would have killed him if he was unaugmented still, or hurt even worse? Merlin had no way of knowing since this was the first time he had ever been stung by a jellyfish. At least he could say he had a new, healthy respect for jellyfish; enough to steer clear of them for sure. When the young Spartans reached the shoreline, laying down in the sand to catch their breaths. Merlin asked, “How’s your leg?” For a couple moments, low gasps interrupted Andra’s ability to speak. In the dim lighting of the tiki torch, Merlin could see her chest heaving up and down. She finally responded once she caught her breath. “What about you?” Merlin responded, equally breathless and stinging all over. “Burning.” “Same.” Merlin looked down at his legs; already, swollen-red hives were beginning to spread along faint brown-pale lines left where the jellyfish tentacles had slid against Merlin’s skin. That urge to scratch the severe rash marks was getting hard to ignore. “We need to get back to Camp,” Merlin told Andra as he flipped over and clambered to his feet. His legs were shivering continuously, a severe reaction to the toxin now permeating across his flesh. Pushing through the pain, Merlin reached out a helping hand to Andra who quickly seized it. Merlin could see her knuckles were turning white with how she was squeezing his wrist as he yanked her up. Throwing her outstretched arm over his shoulder, Merlin planted his soles in the sand and led his teammate over the tiki torch to grab their tee shirts and the crumpled MRE bags lying at the torch’s base. Andra swooped down silently and picked them up; she nodded to Merlin with a puff of loose breath and they began their cliff-ascent back to Camp. Maybe Merlin or Andra could have called for their compatriots on the frigate to assist them; however, Merlin was more than comfortable to go without their assistance. He already had someone in mind, his fireteam’s medic. On Argus V, family dynamics took form around the members of fireteams. It was a phenomenon practiced throughout Delta Company, trust between units saw moderate promotion but it was always in short supply. Better to rely on “family” than someone outside your fold. Unzipping his sealed shorts pocket, Merlin yanked his VISR glasses from the pouch and slapped them onto his eyes with his left hand. Detecting his eyes, the visor lit up the surrounding area and gave Merlin access to a basic heads-up display. Andra, similar to other Spartans, outlined in a green aura. Tapping the side of the glasses, Merlin activated the VISR’s built-in radio headset and linked into his fireteam’s chatroom. “Testing…” Merlin mumbled to himself, checking for audio. Everyone seemed to be offline now as shown by the five grayed-out circles on his VISR that identified his teammates’ statuses. Pinging one of the Spartans, he met the chirping voice of a Roxanne-D107. “Rox here.” “Hey, Roxanne...” Merlin greeted, numbed. “What’s up?” “Andra and I had a run-in with some jellyfish.” Rox’s voice sucked in a pound of air before responding, “That sucks...I’m back in the room, can you make it back?” Merlin glanced over to Andra. “Can you climb the hill or is it bad?” “I can make it; pretty sure,” Andra replied through a slight wince. Merlin returned to his blunt conversation with Roxanne. “Yeah. I think so.” “Alright. I will meet you at the western entrance of the Camp. See you in a bit.” “See you.” Merlin cut the call off from his end. Merlin felt Andra’s weight shift from leaning on him to supporting him somewhat. The girl was trying to find a good balance between the two as they began marching up the sidewalls of Shrapnel Cove. It was probably equivocal to between five and seven flights of steep stairs, a sizeable challenge but not impossible. The two would be fine climbing the narrow path that wormed its way up the coastal bluffs. It was a good couple of minutes before the Spartans finally crested over the final stone step. Still ignoring his burning and exhausted legs, Merlin continued forward. Somewhere along the route, Andra had picked up more momentum and started to haul Merlin up the steps they walked together. “Hey, Andra?” “Yeah.” “Thank you for helping me out,” Merlin spoke to her as he started to make out the open fields that surrounded what the Spartans considered home. Camp Ambrose. The metallic fortress with large titanium walls stood out sharply with the nightly thick pine forest that surrounded the facility at a distance. The base’s watchtowers and floodlights twinkled in the humid air. “With what?” Andra asked as her blue pupils glanced at Merlin in curiosity. “Teaching me how to swim. Staying beside me through everything. And help me up this cliff…” Merlin stated, glancing back toward the Cove behind them. Andra went silent. Merlin felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach again, never mind his burning legs. “Something wrong?” Andra let go of Merlin and shook her head. “It’s nothing. You just sounded like me for a second…” “Why is that?” Merlin asked, now curious himself. “I’ve said the same thing to you before,” Andra replied to Merlin. “We’re friends. I’ll always have your back.” “Right,” Andra replied; she looked back out toward Camp Ambrose. “We need to get back...someone’s coming.” Merlin glanced out toward where Andra was looking, assisted by her outstretched hand pointing toward the individual running toward them. “Hey!” The voice of Roxanne called out to Merlin and Andra from the fast-moving silhouette. “You guys okay?” “Burning!” Andra called back in a holler she usually reserved for combat. “Come on, let’s get inside then! It won’t kill you but let it continue and putting on anything is going to really feel like crap.” Merlin blinked twice at Roxanne, processing what she said before yelping in surprise as Andra jostled him forward so that he was closer to the medic. Roxanne swooped down and threw Merlin’s other arm over her shoulder. “Wait…what?” Merlin asked, performing a double take. “You’re the worse off between the two of us, dumbass!” Andra bluntly stated and started guiding the trio back to Camp Ambrose. Roxanne nodded firmly in confirmation after reviewing Merlin’s legs. Even in the darkness, she seemed convinced they were severe. Rox looked over Andra, her bright-blue pupils filled with motherly concern, “You feeling okay with carrying half of him?” “Yeah. It is partially my fault we were stung so badly. I’ll be fine though.” Rox nodded silently as Merlin let his legs glide lightly over and occasionally tap the ground. It took a couple more minutes to get back to base and to their dormitory inside the barracks. The world started to blur as a follow up to the jelly stings – by the time they reached the gates, Merlin's ability to process details and his surroundings went the way of his adrenaline, it became lost in a blur of noise and senses. It got hot and Merlin could tell he was sweating profusely. "He's going to be out of it for quite a while, let him get some rest. He’s not poisoned or anything but the jellyfish toxin overworked his nervous system and marching up the bluffs took out the rest of his fuel tank. Sleep should help clear his head by morning, I already put some tonic on the sting area, should help with the burning sensation. I won't bother telling anyone about it, you two just need some rest." Roxanne's voice explained to Andra in the distance. A half-hearted hum of affirmation escaped Andra's lips in the same manner from afar. Merlin felt a familiar weight press down on Merlin's mattress next to his half-asleep form. It was probably Andra given the mop of black hair dangling over Merlin's head. Roxanne added, "You need to get some sleep too Andra, I wouldn't be surprised if you end up like him any minute now. I already gave you the tonic. Try to get some sleep." "Alright, alright. I will." Andra responded in doubt but defeat. Rox continued, "I'm going to go see if the mess hall is still open, I didn't realize I'd be so hungry after sleeping most of the day..." A light above Merlin went out suggesting someone flicked off the dorm's overhead lights. Andra's voice entered Merlin's ears distantly once more, as a door clicked shut. "Hey, idiot. I am just going to sleep here if you do not mind. I know you're too weak to respond so, get some sleep." Andra pushed against Merlin so that her back was rubbing against Merlin's side. Unable to respond in a meaningful way, Merlin gave her a neutral groan; he was not even sure how he was supposed to respond to her comment. "Uh huh. Night Merlin." Andra responded, once again afar but comedic, without really considering what her best friend actually intended. Her last chuckles guided Merlin into a solid, dark slumber finally losing his battle with exhaustion. Merlin's dreams filled with the tales and memories of how he came to this point, to have become a Spartan supersoldier. 'Chapter Two: "''Point of No Return" }} “Admiral Utah? Welcome back to the Point of No Return, this way please.” The Marine sergeant greeted the superior officer stepping off the landing ramp and into the hangar bay. Dressed in a UNSC Navy officer’s jumpsuit, Rear Admiral Jazmine Utah appeared sharp and business-like in the naval-grey reengineered Kevlar wrapped around her form. She held a vacuum helmet under her right arm rigidly and a small vanilla folder in her left. A rare, braided ponytail dangled from her amber hair locks, a call back to her younger years as an ONI field officer. Gray bags wrapped the underside of her eyes, formed from days and months of endless warfare against an alien mega-theocracy known to Humanity as “the Covenant.” The aliens sought to carry out their holy mission of exterminating the human species; Utah and others, the UNSC Armed Forces, were determined to prevent that doomsday threat. Still, the Human-Covenant War took its toll, too many dead and since the very first day of battle, they’d been on the losing end. “Give me a quick sec Sergeant,” Utah replied with a vertical stretch of sky-pointed arms, a yawn, and the bouncing of her boot soles on the hangar tarmac. She glanced back to the security team relaxing in the D77 gunship’s troop hold behind her. A number of her own Special Forces subordinates and a giant of a man decked out in a beige-colored set of powered armor. A thick, steel-colored visor’s gaze stared back at Utah unwavering. “Commander, keep the Pelican warm. The unit is free to rest and wander in the usual area but be ready to take off as soon as I get back,” the Rear Admiral called out, addressing the Spartan Commander in his combat suit. “Also, take care of my helmet.” Utah tossed her helmet lazily into the troop hold where the Spartan seemed to twitch only slightly before the helmet landed in his gentle clasp. The Spartan paused before replying, “Understood ma’am.” Utah snapped back to the Marine and his hangar-greeting team, “Alright I’m ready now. Lead the way Sergeant.” The Sergeant gestured towards the Rear Admiral to take the lead as he stepped into a loose stride alongside the superior officer. The four Marines behind their sergeant silently stepped into a formation and followed them out of the hangar bay. They left the Special Forces operators and their Spartan commander to their own devices. Once out of earshot of the Spartan, the Marine Sergeant glanced down at Utah who stood a head shorter than he did. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking? The Spartan, he a new addition to your security team?” “Something like that Sergeant. I can’t say much, you know the rules.” The Rear Admiral replied without making eye contact with her escort. “Of course ma’am, it’s just, we didn’t expect to see more than one today.” “More than one you say? Who’s the other?” Utah asked, suddenly interested in their conversation. “A266, ma’am.” “Oh,” Utah’s eyes went wide for a moment as a spell of shock came over her. She shook her head, refocused, and stared straight ahead. “…okay.” The sergeant noted the momentary break in composure on the Rear Admiral’s face and zipped his mouth. It was clear the presence of the other Spartan was a surprise, likely an unwelcome one. Silence overtook the Marine fireteam and the Rear Admiral. A turbulent storm raged below Utah’s façade. SPARTAN-A266? The former sniper of CAT2 NOBLE TEAM? His clearance wasn’t high enough to attend this meeting and he was a Spartan, his place was on the field of battle fighting the aliens on Earth, not attending board meetings. Something was afoot, and, if he was here, a number of other scenarios, paranoid ones, were possible too. Utah’s mind raced trying to find a satisfactory reason why one of the most decorated SPARTAN-IIIs still alive today found his way into her board meeting; she found no comforting answers. Utah groaned under her breath and glanced at a wall of television screens that ran the length of this particular section of hallway. Substituting the presence of reinforced windows through external camera arrays, the screens displayed the nearby gas giant bathing the outside of the ship in the ambient light of blue-colored thunderclouds running for miles. Dark space rocks floated by, sticking out like polka dots against the gassy hurricanes beneath them. Partially in view, the bow of the UNSC light cruiser Sun Tzu came as a reassuring reminder that soon the Rear Admiral would be back aboard her own ship, the meeting ahead soon in the past. She shook her head and pushed the thought of her own vessel away; Utah needed to focus on the present and the meeting ahead. These crucial moments would determine if she could make a positive mark on current and future Spartan programs. It would determine if the flaws she saw in the plans of the late Colonel James Ackerson and the bastard Doctor Halsey were correctable. No more suicide troops. No more suicide missions. No more kidnapped children. No more lost orphans. There would only be SPARTAN-III Delta Company, and Rear Admiral Utah would turn them into the finest batch of Spartans ever conceived. Moreover, their purpose would be determined in the coming months. Either, they would be the last Spartan generation to fight the remnants of a fractured Covenant Empire, or, they would be the first Spartan generation to be born into an era without the threat of extinction. However, Utah first had to get through her meeting and secure the funding the Spartan unit was desperate to acquire. Utah walked with her escorts as they descended deeper into the Point of No Return, however, she could not hide the boredom she felt as they turned the hallway corner into the first security checkpoint. There were many more to come. It was a security measure Utah was abundantly familiar with, having assigned many of the Marines and former Special Operations personnel to these posts herself. Along with that, every visit to the Point of No Return came with multiple searches and screenings to protect the leadership and the ship itself from potential intruders. The ship was the Office of Naval Intelligence’s mobile headquarters; security measures were expectantly robust. Pat down frisking. Full body scanners. Genetically engineered guard dogs. Neural Interface scanners. Dozens of camera arrays. Security contractors decked out in their polarized helmets and equipped with all sorts of combat gear. Utah’s eyes dragged with her boredom as she watched the security guards do their work to confirm that the Rear Admiral was who she said she was. Her eyes glanced down at the two giant guard dogs watching her with their beady-brown eyes and huffing, smiling open jaws. The genetically spliced wolf jaws stuck out to Utah as for a moment she imagined them slipping around her throat and ripping her head from her spine. Utah clutched her presentation folder a little tighter. She shook her head in distaste and glanced towards the plain titanium bulkheads that ran the length of the corridor. They came with a mirror-like shine that barely reflected Utah’s form back at her; all she could make out was a humanoid blob in a gray-and-black bodysuit. The ONI Marine sergeant quipped at his superior’s visible distaste. “Are we taking too long ma’am? I’m sorry about the pedestrian traffic. I’m sure you’re aware of the circumstances.” “I’m not complaining Sergeant. I’m just thinking about your hounds. I worked on that project, ANUBIS, almost two decades ago. Quite the bite force, the first pups we had were untamable and were put down as soon as they matured.” “Well, I’d have to agree with you there ma’am. I’d bet they could give even an unarmored Spartan a run for their money. These two, Wolverine and Shredder, they’re bitters. I’d offer to lend them to you but they’re not good with strangers.” “I wouldn’t imagine taking those two beauties off your hands, Sergeant. I got enough mouths to feed with the next project coming up.” “I got to give you credit Admiral. You’re always looking ahead to the next mission.” “Uh huh…” Utah returned to her silence. The Sergeant was unusually conversational. Most of the escorts just carried on with their task and talked among themselves over their squad radio networks. There was something familiar about the Marine. Maybe he served under Utah at one time. Either way, it was strange to be talking to a security guard this long. The checkpoints dragged on around her as she passed several more performing same or similar inspections upon her. During that time, Utah couldn’t help but let her mind drift; she wanted to keep her mind on the meeting she was supposed to attend but she could not. Her eyes kept glancing at the security installations around her as it called back to something her mother warned her about upon joining the Office of Naval Intelligence out of college. “The walls have eyes, sweetie.” Utah whispered the vague piece of advice to herself like a mantra, something she had done several times upon coming aboard the Point of No Return. It was a reminder of the paranoia and the alienating nature of ONI. After years of working for the intelligence department, Utah used it as a reminder for herself that she was dipping into the dark side of Humanity, and that she was to remain ever aware of it. It was a reminder to herself to draw a line in the sand and set a moral code, and yet, she knew for much of her career, she stretched that code and redrew that line repeatedly. All for ONI, all for the UNSC, all for the sake of Mankind. The security checks passed slowly for the Rear Admiral, by the time she arrived at the titanium wall that separated The Odin’s Eye from the rest of the galaxy, twenty minutes passed. The biometric scanner locked into the wall buzzed on Utah’s approach, scanning her being. The Marines and ONI security personnel were long behind her, she was alone now with only her destination ahead of her. The machine whirred and made pinging noises as it recognized the face and bio-data of one Jazmine Michelle Utah. It confirmed the presence of the Rear Admiral’s officer neural implant and confirmed the authentication code that was stored within, a simple command confirmed with her computer-enhanced thoughts. Three metallic pops echoed from the wall in front of Utah. Three bunker-style locks came undone as if she had whispered the magic chant to open the hidden tomb. The wall parted in two, becoming two massive sliding doors. Before the walls opened, there was no break or indent in the bulkhead; now, there was a gap two meters across and three meters high. Without missing a beat, the Rear Admiral stepped forward and entered the hidden passage. She noted the thickness of the walls, a meter of solid metal, good enough to stop most projectile weapons, even a high-speed tank penetrator round. Only a highly concentrated explosive with a high temperature could break through. The walls sealed back behind Utah once she passed, bathing her neck and darkness and sealing with another three metallic pings. A low, warm light permeated through the room from the array of yellow ceiling lights overhead. An ebony-black table sat at the center of a five-meter high, dome-shaped conference room. A large steel grate served as a floor and the walls were stainless steel, reflecting the distorted contents of the room back upon itself. For a moment, Utah wondered how her predecessor, Colonel James Ackerson, got used to this room, The Odin’s Eye. Before his death, he was an Army officer; he wasn’t with ONI, only a liaison officer. Utah could count the number of times that Utah entered a conversation with that man, and only once, he mentioned the secretive room aboard the No Return. He seemed to dislike it along with the rest of the ONI black operations; however, he somehow managed for two decades. Fewer than twenty UNSC officers received access to this exclusive club. Utah was still a relatively new addition and she felt her apprehension in her entire being as every footfall echoed off the grating below her work boots. A near-dozen pair of eyes followed Utah on her entrance. An uncanny silence hung over the room. Utah quickly slipped into a conference chair welded to the floor three seats left of Vice Admiral Parangosky, the undisputed Commander-in-Chief of ONI. She gave the Rear Admiral a polite nod before looking over the small crowd that formed in the sealed office space, and Utah did the same. She noted the familiar sight of paper stacks and vanilla folders splashed across the table with not a single electronic in sight. The Odin’s Eye was a Faraday cage, it prevented electronic signals from entering or exiting the room, thus, bring electronics was pointless but also dangerous to the fragile security state managed here. In an age of abundant technology and fully aware artificial intelligence, state secrets required security by extreme means. Utah also noted familiar faces around the table – Parangosky, Captain Serin Osman, Commander Musa Ghanem, Admiral James Breuning, Warrant Officer Jun-A266, and others. The Rear Admiral gave pause at the presence of several Spartan washouts along with Jun-A266, the only Spartan, in the room. Parangosky completed her silent overview of the small crowd in The Odin’s Eye, finally stopping on Captain Osman as her eyes crinkled up in an almost motherly manner. It went unspoken but something in Utah’s throat clenched up at the sight. Osman was Parangosky’s favorite, always had been. Osman was one of the SPARTAN-II washouts present at the meeting today, the other being Commander Musa Ghanem. Before joining ONI as officers, they went by their Spartan designations, Serin-019, and Musa-096 respectively. It was an open secret that Osman’s Spartan augmentations failed, transforming her into a cripple. Apparently, the Vice Admiral took pity on the Spartan washout and took her under her wing, teaching her the ins and outs of being an ONI officer and helping to rehabilitate her. Parangosky was grooming her into a successor; most of the Vice Admiral’s inner circle of ONI officers could see it. In addition, it bothered many among Parangosky’s staffers and subordinates, including Rear Admiral Utah. Osman had a reputation in the Office as short-tempered, self-serving, and “walking around with a stick up her ass.” Sure, Parangosky taught Osman well and the former Spartan shared many traits with her aging mentor like cunningness, workaholic tendencies, shrewdness, and an untempered drive to succeed in whatever endeavor she set her mind to. However, she was young, hot-blooded, and a clear product of corrupt patronage. In Utah’s opinion, Osman didn’t earn her rank; she just rode the wave of her caring mother figure all the way to the top. Moreover, the way Parangosky looked at Osman like a doting mother; it made the Rear Admiral’s skin crawl. Something about that subdued smile and crinkle of the eyes rolled around in her gut the wrong way. Parangosky took her eyes off Osman and turned her full attention to Utah. “Alright. Director Utah, we are all here. You may proceed with your report.” The Rear Admiral sucked in a quick breath, caught off-guard after analyzing her boss’s mannerisms. She released the breath then quietly took one more puff and released all the knotting emotions in her stomach. She put on a poker face, steeled her heart, and flipped open her small vanilla folder containing notes compiled on her newest ONI Section III science project. She began by introducing herself and her relationship to her newest science project. “As you’re all very much aware, the status of the SPARTAN-III Program is due for assessment since the recent circumstances that have befallen many of its key leaders and the loss of Spartan training facilities at Onyx. With the confirmed death of Army Colonel James Ackerson last month in the United Republic’s city of Cleveland, this left the leadership of the SPARTAN-IIIs undecided. I’ve served as the acting director of the SPARTAN-III Program since then, given my position as head of the Beta-5 Division and having participated in several ONI Section III science projects in both an administrative and subordinate fashion. I also have experience with commanding Spartans from my time as a commander of Special Forces.” The Rear Admiral glanced up from her paper and surveyed the room. Everyone was watching her with a mild intensity; already aware of the details she described. However, the importance of the SPARTAN-III Program kept everyone laser-focused. Utah turned back to her papers and continued. “With dutiful respect to my predecessor, I would like to establish a shift in War-time policies regarding the SPARTAN-IIIs. The deployment of Alpha and Beta Companies against Covenant logistic lines deep in enemy territory during Operations: PROMETHEUS and TORPEDO proved effective in slowing the Covenant advance into our innermost Colonies during the last couple of decades. That sadly came at the cost of total annihilation of these SPARTAN-III units, the few that remain from those Companies today are personnel that was removed from their teams before or were among the few survivors of some of the worst combat seen through our conflict with the Covenant.” Utah turned to Jun-A266. “One of those Spartans is with us today. Warrant Officer Jun-A266. You have my deepest condolences for your brothers and sisters-in-arms, Spartan.” The bald Spartan curtly nodded at the Rear Admiral. He wore a formal black suit with a red tie, which stood out among the assortment of military uniforms around conference dome. Given his lack of dress conformity with other UNSC officers in the room, it seemed he was invited here as a guest rather than summoned in some official capacity to this meeting. Utah’s eyes lingered on the Spartan’s skull tattoo, a fistful of arrows, for only a moment longer before descending back to her notes. “As of this month, Gamma Company has not deployed in any official capacity and the few units that are currently involved in operations on Earth and across colonial space are reporting back mission successes as expected. I’d like to maintain this policy with SPARTAN-III Gamma Company going forward; my belief is that the UNSC should avoid deploying SPARTAN-IIIs in mass and instead continue to deploy them at the fireteam and squad-levels similar to the doctrines developed for NAVSPECWAR’s remaining SPARTAN-II operators and ONI’s Headhunter Division. This also carries over to my current request for additional funding for SPARTAN-III Delta Company.” The Rear Admiral exhaled quietly as she flipped to the next page in her stack of documents with a list of official statistics on Delta Company’s current development. She noted a slight twitch in Musa’s shoulders from across the table and a frown tug at Osman’s lips nearby. Utah saw their poker faces shortly fade back. They were most definitely hiding something or had something on their minds. Knowing she would get little out of the two at this time, especially given the departmental rivalry that existed between Utah and the spotty pair of Spartan washouts, Utah carried on through with her request. “At this time, the SPARTAN-III Program is approaching its final spending stretch and we’ve been using our rainy day fund to identify and acquire appropriate subjects with acceptable genetic profiles that match with parameters previously set by the project manager, Kurt Ambrose, SPARTAN-051. Lieutenant Commander Ambrose’s whereabouts are currently unknown; however, we have good reason to believe he is killed-in-action due to the loss of Onyx.” Utah paused to look around the room and noted a number of people remained silent, staring down at the table in front of them. Ambrose was a respected officer and Spartan, he at least deserved a moment of silence. She returned to her paper soon after. “Working with the remaining command staff of the Program, we’ve outlined recruitment procedures and deployed the proper acquisition teams to speak to the children we determined as Spartan candidates. Our investigation of the UEG Foster Care system identified 497 probable candidates based on similar practices employed with past SPARTAN-III companies. Between one hundred and two hundred children are secured or in contact with our recruiters. We can expect to have three hundred or more ready for training by spring at the earliest. The more pressing matter at this time is the budget – with the loss of Onyx along with a majority of the Program’s resources, we need a bigger budget for next year. Credits for establishing new infrastructure, recruiting new training staff, and the usual amenities required for supporting a Spartan project. There are also some procedural changes I wish to amend to the original training regimen for Delta as well – the hope is to correct some mistakes and missed opportunities seen in other Spartan programs.” “What do your accountants say about the costs for establishing a fourth SPARTAN-III company?” Parangosky asked emotionlessly. “It’s here,” Utah said, getting up from her chair. She walked over to the Vice Admiral’s chair, being cautious not to knock over Parangosky’s walking cane hidden partially under the table. She pulled a sheet from her folder and passed it down into the frail hands of the one known as the “Queen of ONI.” In close proximity to her superior, Rear Admiral Utah could clearly see how the years being in charge of the largest intelligence organization in Human history were taking their bodily toll. Parangosky’s hand gently slid against Utah’s, rubbing with the sensation of ancient papyrus scrolls. Her eyes were dark and sunken. Her wrinkled face could compare to an ancient raisin. Utah could see why the Vice Admiral quietly announced her planned retirement last month. She lived through two conflicts: one against aliens from dark space, the other against her own species in a brutal, undeclared civil war. She was ninety-one years old now. The war with the aliens was ending, and through all that time, never had she taken a vacation or stepped down from her post to rest. She almost lived her entire life at war. She might die in the middle of a war still. The only thing left sharp and unmolested by time and war was Parangosky’s mind and her eyes. The sharp steel in her pupils intensively scanned the document in front of her as Utah quietly returned to her seat. By the time she was comfortable and silent again, Parangosky gave her assessment. “If my memory hasn’t failed me, this is almost the same opening cost we originally estimated with the creation of Alpha Company.” “Yes, ma’am. SPARTAN-III Delta Company will be the second-costliest unit to be formed by the SPARTAN-III Program.” “Do you think it’s worth its price?” Parangosky asked Utah, looking for her subordinate’s confidence. “Every credit, Vice Admiral,” Utah replied without missing a beat. She knew what she needed, or rather, believed she knew what she needed. “If I may ask even as I am new here, how much was Alpha Company’s budget in comparison?” Jun-A266 asked from his end of the table. He tilted his head towards Parangosky in an inquisitive manner. Utah answered before Parangosky could, “It’s on a need-to-know basis, Warrant Officer. Official procedure is not to disclose budget finances outside of their chain of command to avoid inter-agency competition for funding.” “Understood ma’am. Of course, my bad.” The Spartan replied, seemingly satisfied, even after the rebuke for his curiosity. “No harm was done, Jun,” Parangosky added with a wave of her hand. She turned over the finance report and passed it back down the table to Utah. “Alright, that concludes my report to the Vice Admiral and to the Board, any questions?” The Rear Admiral asked, opening up the boardroom to questions and discussion. Commander Musa Ghanem, Spartan washout and the only individual seated in a wheelchair spoke up. “What about program alternatives?” Rear Admiral Utah felt her blood run cold at the question. This was his game then, waiting for a chance to offer a counter-proposal to Utah’s work. She composed herself and responded, “At this time, there have been no identified alternatives to the SPARTAN-III Program as the preferred method of training and deploying large units of augmented infantry based on cost, time, and risk assessment. The SPARTAN-IIs and programs like it present too many risks or fail to produce the quantity of personnel that the SPARTAN-III Program has consistently graduated. So I do not see the possibility of alternatives at this time.” “On the contrary Rear Admiral, there are alternatives. I have yet to greenlight your budget even as I believe it is a reasonable request. I invited Commander Ghanem and Warrant Officer A266 to present their own project today as part of a wider investigation into the future of all Spartan-related training programs. We ended the SPARTAN-II Program not long ago on ethical grounds. The kidnapping of children was wrong, even after this Office gave Doctor Catherine Halsey permission to proceed with her acquisitions. The replacement of the children in their homes with conditioned flash clones that quickly died from cloning sickness only muddles the waters more. Even with improvements taken with the SPARTAN-IIIs, recruiting minors to become suicide troops is still ethically wrong.” Parangosky stepped in, planting her commanding voice between the department rivals. Utah’s head snapped in the direction of the ONI Director in silence, she gapped in bewilderment. Parangosky sighed to herself and continued. “I’m planning my retirement in the next few years. Moreover, with this War ending, my tenure as ONI Director approaches its end. I would rather take responsibility for the monsters and messes I gave permission to exist rather than risk the next administration’s integrity with my closeted skeletons. Many of you will be a part of the next administration; no matter who takes the helm, we spent twenty-seven years building this security apparatus. We’ve destroyed our citizens’ right to privacy and removed their basic freedoms for the sake of a more secure state and nation. All with the end of goal of protecting Mankind from itself and from threats on the outside. The Spartan programs are one such violation of human rights and human dignity. The least I can do before I go is lessen the blow.” Utah remained silent, pondering at a thousand miles per hour what that could mean. Parangosky rarely seemed to care about ethics when it came to the security of the Unified Earth Government. Now she was talking as if she always cared. Was she going senile? Utah stopped on that line of thought, even going there would send her mind racing and even asking such a question would be like shooting herself in the foot. “So? What advancement has SPARTAN-IV Program produced that has warranted it receive funding over the creation of a Delta Company?” Utah asked, bringing her right hand to the bridge of her nose in slight frustration as she pressed a forehead pressure point. Ghanem nodded at Utah’s question and opened up his own folder. “We don’t have published results yet, however, our first batch of successfully augmented SPARTAN-IVs are proceeding to combat-ready status. We’ve finally found a stable procedure for augmentations that is far more personal and unique per Spartan we produce. Our industry partners have come forward with working and vetted MJOLNIR GEN2 prototypes that show promise. Moreover, unlike the SPARTAN-IIIs, we are using adult volunteers from the ranks of Special Forces. We have no reason to fall back on using child soldiers any longer.” “Does that not present potential security risks in itself? The case of ONI agent Ilsa Zane and her augmentation procedure still come to mind. A poor attempt to create Spartans that did not require power armor, a real-life Superman. The attempt ended with nine dead volunteers and a Spartan-like augmented operative now emotionally and mentally unhinged. That should have been the death nail for the SPARTAN-IV Program, to begin with.” “The case of Ilsa Zane has been studied and corrections in scope have been made. Any attempts to make augmented personnel without the need for MJOLNIR powered armor are on the shelf, Rear Admiral. That specific operative is now in the care of Admiral Mattius Drake.” Ghanem attempted to growl menacingly at Utah who barely blinked at his half-hearted defense. “I would have ordered her termination had Drake not stepped in,” Utah responded. She still considered the aforementioned failed Spartan too great of a security risk. “I would not,” Ghanem responded icily, “but that’s neither here nor there.” Utah, exasperated, decided it wasn’t worth questioning any longer. She just glanced at Parangosky, who decided that moment was good as ever to step in. “Rear Admiral Utah. You may proceed with the acquisition of candidates for SPARTAN-III Delta Company. I will deny your budget proposal however until the SPARTAN-IVs has gone through their own assessment. Ethically, they are the preferred option. Keep in mind that if I do decide to shut down Delta Company, I expect to be done quickly and quietly. Your service to the UNSC is admirable and respected; I would rather not see you brought before the Senate Armed Services Committee over war crimes. You’re a good officer Utah don’t overextend yourself. You’re dismissed if you like.” Parangosky nodded to Utah. Utah clenched her teeth but spoke clearly and professionally. “Of course ma’am. I’ll carry out your orders.” “Good work, Rear Admiral. You are dismissed then.” Utah saluted the Vice Admiral and stepped out from her chair. She swiftly spun in step and made for the exit, a parade maneuver she learned and mastered years back in college and something she held onto. Utah gave no one a second glance, not even Admiral James Breuning who saluted to Parangosky and ran-walked to catch up to Utah’s stride. Utah almost missed the hushed discussion between Parangosky and Captain Osman as she left. “She of all people should be in support of this. She said she wanted to correct the mistakes of previous Spartan generations. Eliminating the possibility of using more child soldiers should be a logical conclusion.” Parangosky replied quietly, “Utah has her intentions and heart in the right place. She is correct when she addressed the SPARTAN-IIIs as the best foot forward at the moment because they are a proven quality and quantity of Spartan. But the War is ending; we may not need the likes of the SPARTAN-IIIs, or even your generation Osman, any longer…” The walls opened and closed behind Utah and Breuning, an older naval officer dressed in a similar jumpsuit to Utah’s and a chin covered in a beard one day away from being outside grooming standards. The familiar three-metal click secured the door and drowned out the continued private conversation about the SPARTAN-IV Program that Utah had little interest in listening to any longer. She kept walking, Breuning quietly following a couple steps back and the Marine fireteam from before falling into step with the two flag officers. The silence dragged all the way back to the Pelican gunship in the Point of No Return’s hangar. Before climbing aboard, Utah turned to the Marine sergeant from before. “Sergeant, you seem familiar. Have we met?” “Yes, ma’am. On Alluvion. 2542. Your Spartan team pulled my squad out of a tight spot between an Elite strike team and a pair of Wraith anti-aircraft batteries. You were the only one to hail us over the radio when we got pinned down.” “What’s your name Sergeant?” Utah asked out of curiosity. “Sergeant Frank Dellend, ma’am. Hundred-and-First Shock Trooper Battalion.” “ODSTs?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I’ll try to remember the name Sergeant. It’s nice to have someone to talk to during the long security checks.” Utah responded wearily, it was nice to have someone to talk with compared to the boardroom goons that sought to destroy Utah’s project and the senile director that was really at the end of her mental ropes. “Oh, it’s no big deal at all ma’am. I wouldn’t fault you if you forgot.” The Sergeant replied sheepishly. “I mean it Sergeant Dellend. It’s rare to find someone with a heart still on the Point of No Return.” “It’s rare to find an officer willing to respond to a conversation here, ma’am.” Utah nodded her head slowly in understanding then turned back toward the Pelican’s entrance ramp. Breuning and the security team were already strapping themselves in for takeoff. Commander Kyle-B115 was staring at a data pad in silence, seeming occupied. Utah saw one of Dellend’s Marines elbow him in the rib playfully and grinning at the previous interaction between officer and Marine. It must have been a rare occasion if one of the Sergeant’s subordinates was willing to break bearing for a good laugh over the circumstances. The pilot called for dust off as the Pelican bay door closed, dim interior lights bathed Utah in shadows as she took a seat next to SPARTAN-B115. He handed his superior her cared-for vacuum helmet without a word. Breuning finally spoke when the doors closed on the Pelican, turning to Utah. “That meeting didn’t go as planned did it, Utah?” “No. Not really.” The Rear Admiral replied to her superior, the commander and director of ONI’s Section 0, Department for Internal Affairs. “What are you planning to do then?” “I’m not sure…I have a lot to think about.” “Well, if it’s any help, I support and agree with you about the SPARTAN-IVs. They’re a security risk. Delta Company is the far better choice. If there’s anything more I can do to help, just let me know.” Utah mulled it over. She glanced at the Spartan next to her but B115 did little to show signs of listening. He probably was though, he always was. “In private Admiral. Commander, meet us in my private quarters after we are back in Slipspace.” “Of course ma’am.” Silence swallowed the Pelican’s troop bay as the dropship’s thrusters cooked off and they zoomed out into the vacuum of space in the direction of the UNSC Sun Tzu. Back to safe harbor, back to home.